Children of Prophecy (15 page)

Shej’mahi sat in a large, well-stuffed, chair next to the fireplace at the far end of the room. Voluminous black robes enshrouded the old man’s figure, but they didn’t conceal his turning to face Tal. “You’re late, Tal’raen,” he said simply.

“Something came up,” Tal replied calmly.

The Battle Lord, one of the most powerful Magi alive, and the man all the Battlemagi looked to for guidance, smiled slightly. “Yes, I heard,” He admitted. He paused for a moment, then gestured to the other chair by the fire. “Sit down, Tal.”

Tal sat, hesitantly. Clearly Shej’mahi had heard about the duel.
Just how much trouble am I in?
he wondered.

He met Shej’s eyes without hesitation. The old Mage sighed. “Did you really have to death-seal the wounds?” he asked.

Tal shrugged. A death-seal made the scar of the wound permanent. Shel’nart wasn’t soon going to be forgetting the lesson he’d been taught. Nor would he be quite so gorgeous anymore. “I was making a point,” he replied.

“A rather permanent point, I must say,” Shej observed, raising a steaming mug of tea to his lips. He paused just before he drank and gestured. Another steaming mug of tea lifted itself from the table and landed next to Tal’s chair.

“Shel’nart is noble, and the son of a powerful Earl,” he continued. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to unseal the scars?” Only the Mage who cast a death-sealing could remove it.

“No,” Tal said shortly. “How good a lesson would it be if it was taken away immediately?”

“Very well,” Shel said with a sigh. “It was a duel, and I guess it was within your rights as victor.” He met Tal’s gaze over his mug. “Now, perhaps we should discuss just
why
you were fighting that duel in the first place.”

“He was harassing my friend,” Tal told him, trying and failing to keep his anger with the other youth out of his voice.

“Ah, yes,” the old Mage acknowledged. “Initiate Brea’ahrn. You are aware that the two are intended to be betrothed?”

“Lord Shej’mahi,
any
man who treated a woman the way Shel’nart was treating Brea, no matter what was between them, deserved what Shel received,” Tal said hotly, glaring at the older Mage. “Besides, I have heard much of ‘
intentions
’ to do with their betrothal, but Brea is opposed to the very idea.”

Shej’s head snapped around to meet Tal’s glare. “She’s
what
?” he demanded.

“Opposed to the idea,” Tal repeated, suddenly confused. “She despises Shel’nart, and I can’t say I blame her, either.”

“Then why is this betrothal occurring?” Shej demanded.

“She told me her father is insisting on it,” Tal told his teacher, confused, “that he refuses to hear her disagreements.”

“He does, does he?” Shej’s voice was low and dangerous. “Tal,
I
was told she had agreed to the betrothal, was even enthusiastic about it.”

“What?!” Tal blurted out. “Never!”

“Indeed,” Shej’mahi, Battle Lord and Master of all Death Magi, said, nodding slowly. “I guess lessons are canceled for tonight.”

“Why?” Tal asked, even more confused now.

“Because the betrothal is being held
tonight
. I would have had to leave early to witness them,” Shej told him. The old Mage stood to leave, but paused, looking down at Tal for a moment.

“Come with me,” he told the still seated youth finally.

“Where?”

“Just come.”

Brea sat cross-legged on her bed, a small smile playing across her lips as she remembered Shel’nart’s reaction when the Healer had found she could only heal the wounds Tal had left, not remove the scars.

Hopefully, Tal’s actions would get the lout off of her back. She was about as enthused with the idea of marrying him as she was with the idea of marrying a viper.
Actually, I think I’d prefer the viper
.

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. “Who is it?” she asked.

“It is Lela, child,” her nurse replied.

Brea sighed in irritation. “Come in,” she replied, finally. After the woman had bustled through the door, Brea turned her best glare upon her. “What do you want?”

Her maid rushed over to her and pulled her to her feet. “Come, milady,” the maid told her busily. “We must get you properly dressed.” The woman opened up Brea’s closet and looked over the line of white tunics and other clothing in it. “Do you not possess even one dress, child?” she demanded.

“I am a Mage, Lela,” Brea said, irritably. “The only formal clothing I possess is my robes.”

“No, no, that won’t do,” Lela told her, rummaging through the closet. “After all, you want to look good for your betrothal.”

“Hold on a moment,” Brea snapped, her voice freezing Lela where she stood. “My
what
?!”

The maid turned to face her. “Your betrothal,” she repeated. “To Shel’nart. It is tonight; your father told me to bring you.”

Brea felt her face slowly freeze over. “In that case, I think my robes are most
definitely
what I want to wear,” she said flatly.
Robes for a Mage, after all, are the robes of a Judgment.

This time Brea didn’t have to destroy the door. The Kingsman who guarded the chamber had clearly heard what had happened to the
last
guard to get in the Princess Initiate Brea’ahrn’s way, and opened the door for her with an almost unseemly haste.

Her father looked up from the table where he was talking quietly with the Earl Jil’nart, Shel’s father. The High King Kelt’ahrn nodded. “Ah, Brea, I’ve been expecting you,” he said, sounding far calmer than he could
possibly
be.

“You lousy piece of
filth
,” Brea screamed at him. “Does it
amuse
you to roll in such muck and justify it with politics?!”

Jil’nart looked at her calmly then glanced over to her father. “Is there going to be a problem with the betrothal, my liege?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Kelt’ahrn said. “Brea will give her consent when the time comes.”

“I will
never
consent to marry that piece of slime so you can suck up to his piece of shit father!” Brea snapped.

Her father raised a hand with a pained look. “Perhaps, my lord Earl, you should wait outside?” he asked.

“Perhaps I shall,” Jil’nart agreed with a slow nod. “I hope this will not jeopardize our arrangement.” The burly soldier paused. “If I were you, Kelt’ahrn, I would not allow my daughter to play with magic so readily. It makes her arrogant, and there are those who will not stand for a Mage upon your throne.” With that, Jil’nart nodded to Kelt’ahrn and left, brushing past Brea like she didn’t even exist.

Kelt looked at his daughter. “Fortunately for the Kingdom, Brea,” he said quietly, “your consent is not really important. I am your father, and you
will
do this. Do you understand?”

“And what does mother think of my consent being ‘not really important’?” Brea spat at him.

“Your mother understands that it is for the best,” he said calmly, but his gaze flicked away from her as he spoke.

Brea was silent for a moment. “You haven’t told her, have you?” she asked finally, her voice flat. He didn’t respond for a moment. “
Have you
?!” she screeched.

“No, I have not told your mother of your intransigent, childish, behavior,” her father admitted. “You should be grateful I have not embarrassed you so.”

“Embarrassed
me
?” she snarled. “You cowardly piece of
slime
! You
dare
bind me to this and say you have not
embarrassed
me by telling mother that you are playing
pimp
for your political alliances!”

“
That is enough
!” Kelt’arhn thundered. “I am your father, and you
will
obey me. It is my right to choose your husband, and I have done so!”

The door behind him suddenly slammed open, as if blown by a strong gust of wind, and a voice quietly said, “Actually, it is not your right. It is hers.”

Brea looked to the door in hope, to find the Battle Lord Shej’mahi, accompanied by the Eldest Poli’jar, leader of the Life Magi, both in full ceremonial robes. Poli nodded to Brea as she finished speaking, and the leaders of the two Mage Councils entered the room.

“We must, however, confirm her choice,” Shej’mahi said quietly. He faced Brea. “Princess Initiate Brea’ahrn, as a Life Mage Initiate, have you given your consent to this betrothal?”

“Never,” Brea responded. She caught a flash of movement by the door, and hope turned to certainty as Tal, in full formal raiment, entered behind the two senior Magi.

Shej’mahi nodded and turned to Kelt’ahrn. “You
lied
to us, Kelt’ahrn,” he said flatly, coldly. “You told us that she had consented, was even eager for this match.” He gestured towards Tal. “If not for my student’s friendship with her, we might have allowed this to go through.”

He glanced towards Poli’jar, who nodded to him to continue. “We will not. We will not allow you to force a Mage to marry against her will. It is our oldest right: a Mage chooses his – or her – own consort.”

“I am her father,” Kelt’ahrn exclaimed.

“The right of a Mage overrides that,” Poli’jar said calmly.

“She is a Princess!”

“She is a Mage,” Shej responded. “That is more important. When she became a Mage, you gave up a father’s rights over her. This betrothal will not happen.”

“Much rests on this marriage, possibly even the future of Vishni itself,” Kelt’ahrn said desperately, clearly trying to call on the Magi’s sense of duty.

“Then, perhaps, you may have convinced her to agree to it,” Poli said calmly. “But given her opinion of the man in question, it was unlikely to begin with. With the way you have treated her over this matter, I sincerely doubt she will even give the idea a moment’s thought.”

Brea shook her head. “Never,” she said flatly. “I don’t care
what
rests on it, I will
not
marry that slime.”

“Therefore, you will not,” Shej confirmed with a nod. He returned his gaze to Kelt. “Find another way to bind your political alliances, Kelt’ahrn. Your daughter is a Mage, and shall make her own choices.”

With that, the three Magi turned to leave. Brea hesitated for a moment, looking at her father. He seemed frozen in place, overwhelmed by the speed with which the two Magi had demolished his certainty and his plans.

She followed the Magi.

When Brea caught up with them, halfway down the hall from the chamber, Tal was waiting for her. He met her with a smile, which she returned enthusiastically.

She then turned her gaze, and smile, to Shej’mahi and Poli’jar. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Shej’mahi simply nodded. Poli’jar smiled at Brea. “As we said to your father,” the Eldest told her, “who you betroth yourself to is your choice, not his. We could not allow you to be forced into a betrothal.”

“Nonetheless…” she trailed off.

“You should thank your friend Tal’raen here more than us,” Shej told her with a snort. “If he hadn’t told me that you hadn’t consented to the betrothal, we would have let it go through, believing that you were willing.”

Brea glanced at Tal, who simply shrugged, his cheeks turning slightly pink, and smiled some more.

Shej smiled gently at the two Initiates. “I believe I still have some things to attend to,” he told them, “so I shall bid you all good night.”

“I must do the same, I am afraid,” Poli said with a small nod. She glanced over Tal and Brea. “Take care, you two.”

The two Mage leaders faded into the night as the four came out into the main courtyard. Brea glanced at where they had gone, then turned back to Tal.

He smiled awkwardly at her. “I should probably be going myself,” he said quietly.

“True,” Brea said, stepping up to him. “Thank you.”

“I don’t have many friends, Brea,” Tal told her quietly. “I like to keep them happy, for their rarity value if nothing else.”

Brea looked at Tal for a moment, and then kissed him softly on the cheek. His face colored even more, and he stepped back slightly. Brea met his eyes and smiled. “Even so, thank you.”

Stret’sar paused on the roof of the building to tie his long blonde hair back into a ponytail, to stop it waving in the wind. He loosened his knife in the makeshift sheath he wore. He gaged the distance to the window on the building across the alley. After a moment’s hesitation, as every muscle in his body tensed, he leapt.

The window shutters swung inwards as he hit them. He fell through them and sprawled onto the carpeted floor. He pulled himself to his knees with a grin and glanced around the bedroom of the most powerful merchant in Telnar.

A large canopied bed occupied the center of the room, but it was empty. The merchant had left some time ago, as Stret watched from the roof. He didn’t know, or care, where the man had gone, only that this room was vulnerable.

His quick survey of the room found what he’d been looking for: a small chest hidden under the merchant’s bed. He pulled it out, and looked over the padlock.

Will it work this time,
he wondered. He touched the padlock and focused on it, visualizing it clicking open. For a second, nothing happened, then there was a click and the padlock fell away.

With a grin, he opened the lid. The neat stacks of gold and silver were only a tiny fraction of the merchant’s fortune, but it was more money than Stret had seen in his entire life. He closed the lid, sealing it with the padlock he’d brought for just that purpose.

Picking up the chest, he grunted with its weight. He wasn’t going to be doing any jumping around carrying the chest. He lowered the chest to the floor and reached inside his vest for the coil of rope he kept there. He wrapped the rope around the chest’s handles – he didn’t quite trust his padlock to hold the weight – and lifted the chest to the windowsill.

He carefully moved his own bulky form onto the windowsill. At fifteen, he was rapidly becoming too large a man to do this, hence his attempt to set himself up for life with this robbery.

Gripping the rope carefully, he kicked the chest off the sill. With a quiet grunt, he took the weight of it onto his hands through the rope. He glanced out the window to be sure there was no-one in the alley below, and began to lower the chest down.

The chest was almost down when the door behind him opened. Stret swore and dropped the chest, spinning around to find a blue-uniformed guard standing in the door. The man stood and stared at him for a moment in shock, giving Stret the time to slip his knife free of its sheath and throw it.

The guard opened his mouth to shout for help, but the knife slammed blade first into his throat, cutting off all air to his voice forever.

Stret dropped off the windowsill, running across the room to grab his knife. He’d learned from other people’s mistakes that Life Magi could track you if you left anything of yours at the scene. He glanced around the room to be certain he hadn’t missed anything and then followed the chest out the window.

He slid swiftly down the rope. Reaching the bottom, he grabbed it and yanked hard. It came slithering down to him, and he coiled it up again.

The chest was going to be obvious, but he couldn’t split it into bags here. He was still too close, too likely to get caught. He picked up the chest and ran. It was his chance for another life, and he wasn’t going to risk it. He’d bag the coins later.

Stret entered the hovel he shared with his mother and several, younger, women who plied the same trade as her. This late in the night, even prostitutes returned to wherever they hid away, and this little hovel was where this small group of women slept, at least when they slept alone.

Nonetheless, two of them were awake when he ducked under the ragged leather curtain they used as a door. The inside of the small building defied the outside, with cheap but well-made furniture settled onto a clean floor. Curtains that at least lacked holes, though they also lacked any other virtues, separated the various beds. A thief and a half-dozen whores had managed to make their home as home-like as they possibly could.

Jen’sar, Stret’s mother, came over to him wordlessly as he entered and hugged him. She did almost everything wordlessly, for she found it difficult to speak. Her speech impediment was legacy of one of her pimps – her last pimp, as a matter of fact. The man had scored her throat when she’d wanted to stay home and take care of Stret when he was sick. Less than a month later, Stret had killed the man.

The second woman, a girl by age, waited until Jen had pulled away before coming in to kiss Stret. “Where were you?” Shai’ran demanded.

Stret kissed his lover back to quiet her down. “I was making a run,” he explained softly.

“Ah,” Shai replied. “What did you get?” she asked after a pause.

He grinned at her. “What would you say to never walking the streets again?” he asked.

“
That
much?” she squealed.

“I cleaned out old Kels’nar’s private chest,” Stret told her happily. “There’s enough to start a new life for all of us, a decent life, a
long
way away from here.” He turned to his mother and kissed her on both cheeks. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy horses and a wagon, and we can leave this town forever.”

Jen’sar smiled and nodded. She returned her son’s kisses with some of her own, then retired to her own alcove.

Shai smiled at Stret and took his hands. “That’s for tomorrow, though,” she told him firmly. “For tonight, let’s celebrate.” With that, she led him into the curtained off alcove the two shared.

Stret had had to leave the wagon behind. There were no real roads that went near their hovel, only alleys. So he’d paid one of the beggars, a man he knew and trusted, to watch over it, and headed home.

He was halfway there when he heard the first screams. It took him a moment to locate them, and to realize they were coming from his section of the alley. Without thinking, he broke into a run.

His heart dropped out of his chest as he saw the two men standing casual guard outside his hovel. They were dressed in uniforms, the kind that the noble houses gave their guards. He tried to lunge past them, but one of them blocked his way.

Barely slowing down, Stret kneed the man in the groin, and slammed a fist into the guard’s temple as he doubled up. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. He burst through the curtain door of the small building, and stopped in horror at the scene inside.

Three men – no, boys – in fancy dress stood in the center of the single room, with swords out. Jen’sar lay crumpled against one wall, curled around what seemed to be a gut wound. The other girls were gathered around Shai, standing between her and the nobles.

Even as Stret watched, the lead noble advanced on Shai. “You don’t break an appointment with Kij’naki and walk away from it, you little whore,” the fancily-dressed man snarled at her. “You spread your legs for me now, or I cut your pretty little neck.”

Cold rage flared through Stret and he stepped forward. “Get away from her you louse!” he bellowed, charging at the man.

The noble, Kij’naki, glanced back at Stret, and waved his non-sword hand dismissively. One of the nobles faced Stret and attacked. Stret managed to dodge the lunge, redirecting the man’s charge into the wall.

Stret tried to lunge for Kij’naki, but the noble he’d sent into the wall grabbed him from behind and sent him spinning into the wall himself. Stret crumpled to the floor. He rolled to the side, desperately trying to regain his breath, as the sword lashed out. It scored along his arm, leaving his blood to soak into the cloth flooring.

He tried to roll away again, but the sword lashed out again. It seemed to move slowly and inexorably towards his throat.

“No!” one of the girls screamed, just before she slammed into the noble from the side, deflecting his thrust. The noble swore, and tried to push her away – with his sword hand. She crumpled as the sword went through her chest.

Rage filled Stret, and he was suddenly on his feet. His knife flashed out of his vest, and cut across the noble’s throat before he could dodge or block. The man slumped to the floor in a spray of blood.

Stret looked up from the man he killed just in time to hear Shai’s gasp as Kij’naki’s sword slid between her ribs. He didn’t know if it was intentional or an accident or what, but time seemed to freeze for him.

His eyes took in the entire room. The girl who’d tried to protect him lying dead on the ground. His mother lying against the wall, where a brutal sword slash had thrown her as it disemboweled her. Another one of the girls, prostitutes maybe but his
friends
, lay at the third noble’s feet, bleeding from a blow to her head that would likely kill her. Two of the girls, by some mercy of the Gods, weren’t here. Finally, Shai’ran, the girl he loved, slowly sliding off the sword of the man that had killed her.

The two nobles looked at Stret, and froze. Something in him snapped. From deep down inside him, where the little tricks of magic he’d used on the streets dwelled, fury rose. A fury of heat and rage and uncontrollable destruction.

His hands rose to point at them, and fire flashed from his hands. The fire wasn’t red or white, but a deep and shifting purple. He felt it flare through him and out of him. The fire. The power. Chaos.

The chaos fire took the two nobles and burnt them to ashes. It flared around the hovel, burning the home that Stret had taken a life to build – and a single moment of bloody violence to lose. The wood and adobe walls burst to light with a more conventional flame, as did the furniture and cloth flooring.

Tears ran down Stret’s face as chaos fire continued to blaze from his hands. His fury and his pain unleashed it, and he burned the life he’d built. The people he’d built it for were dead.

The wagon went through the town gate. Stret didn’t bother to wave to the single guard who’d passed him through. Even the knowledge that the rest of the guards were off trying to quell the blaze he’d started didn’t penetrate his haze.

The rage was gone now, and all he felt was sick. And the magic. He could always feel the magic now. Not buried, as it always had been before, accessible almost at random, but just under the surface. Magic. He was a Mage.

He turned onto the High Road, guiding the horses with a flick of the reins, but his mind was elsewhere. He probed the magic, seeking… he didn’t know what.

He wasn’t helpless anymore, always at the mercy of others. He was a Mage. Magi were supposed to protect the people, help them. But where had the Magi been when nobles destroyed his life?

Stret followed the Road northeast, towards the mountains dividing the Kingdom of Vishni from the Waste where the Swarm dwelt, and a cold hatred burned within his soul.

Stret exited the estate villa, shading his eyes against the bright sun, and turned to look at the man behind him. “I like it,” he said calmly, turning to face the merchant. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Wrong, my lord?” the merchant asked. “What makes you think anything would be wrong?”

“A fifteen acre estate and villa for this price?” Stret replied with a sneer. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The plump little man straightened indignantly. “Are you saying that Kih’lik of Likari would market damaged estate?” he demanded.

A moment later, the man squeaked as the jeweled sword Stret had stolen from a noble nearly a hundred miles back pricked his throat. “
Don’t
lie to me, little man,” Stret told him. “What’s the catch?”

Kih’lik’s beady eyes glistened in fear as they focused on the blade. “The previous owner went bankrupt,” he explained quickly, “and is selling the estate to cover his debts.”

Stret pulled the blade back slightly, allowing the man to breathe. “And?” he encouraged.

“There’s been a problem with bandits,” the merchant admitted. “The lord was unwilling to ask the Magi for aid, and they ended up stealing most of his herds.”

The Mage smiled coldly. “I see,” he said coldly. “Bandits do not bother me, Kih’lik. Return to your business and draw up the papers. I will bring you your money by tomorrow, my word on it.” He brought the sword up to point at the merchant. “Don’t try and sell it to anyone else between now and then, either.”

Kih’lik began to expand indignantly again, but quickly deflated as Stret tapped his sword hilt. “Certainly not, Lord Stret’sar,” he said quietly.

Stret watched the little merchant mount up and ride away. While the price for the estate was, indeed, pathetic for what it was buying, it was more money than he currently had. Which, fortunately, wasn’t a problem.

He bared his teeth as he considered. The little man had shown him the offices of his main competitor in Likari. There would be enough gold there to make the purchase, and to provide the sort of funds that the itinerant nobleman he was pretending to be would have.

The next morning, bright and early, saw Stret walking calmly into Kih’lik’s office. A pair of hired porters followed him, carrying an ironbound chest. He gestured to the merchant’s desk and the porters dumped the chest on it.

“Good day, Kih’lik,” Stret’sar said cheerily. “Your money, as promised.”